


once i was a very young man, and very young men are none too clever

by debeauharnais



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Backstory, First Meeting, M/M, Pre-S1, ahoy! the london season, i might add more chapters who knows, look another thomas/philip fic when will it end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4593699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debeauharnais/pseuds/debeauharnais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A youthful dalliance; a few weeks of madness in a London Season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it

**Author's Note:**

> hahahHAhAHa this is absolute trash and i'm really not happy with it but w/e. i'll probably add a few more chapters just cuz i have some ideas of the mischief they could get up to during the season (maybe like 6 chapters?) buuut we'll see. 
> 
> xxx

_“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.”_

-          _F. Scott Fitzgerald_

-          

_“Young boy, trying to rule the world, I see;_

_Well, young boy, I can give you everything – diamonds – everything you touch can be golden;_

_But first you gotta listen to me;_

_I’ll tell you the truth, I promise you – this world may frown upon the things I have you do;_

_But I got taste, and I got style – I know the twists and turns to make your life worth—“_

-          _Raury_

 

It was a terrible thing, really. To wake up each morning and know, with complete certainty, that nothing would change. Each dawn, each dusk; each sunrise brought the same day. _Good morning, m’lord. Good night, m’lord._ Oh, but he wasn’t required to speak nearly that much – simply to stand there, the very picture of servitude, as the great and noble upperclass feasted on delicacies worth more than a decade of wages and twittered on about _oh, my dear, did you_ hear? _A distant cousin’s neighbour has been growing_ pink _roses when the Ladies’ Book of Etiquette clearly dictates that it is w_ hite _that is in fashion this year! Ha!_  

Ordinarily, Thomas was content to listen and bow and scrape, biding his time, waiting for a better life – a life of independence and security and perhaps the odd little glimmer of power and prestige. A life in which he was his own master. He would often contemplate such an existence as he stood idly by, unconsciously absorbing little snippets of information that may come in handy down the track (for information was like armour); he thought on far-away places, on escaping with dashing princes to distant realms. He supposed he was childish to hope for such things, to fancy himself worthy of an existence when he was the mere son of a clockmaker from some Manchester backstreet.

But he was a dreamer – arrogant, proud. Insecure. He craved earthly possessions to justify his drawing breath; longed to be told _you can stop fighting, darling; you are enough._ Back then, in his younger years filled with an insolent sense of entitlement, he still had the energy (the blind hope, though he was loath to consider himself an optimist) to envision better days. Those better days (but he did not yet know this) would not be forthcoming. In subsequent years, he would wish for the return of that anger. It was preferable to the terribly empty loneliness he was destined to endure.

When he had been told the household was going to London for the Season, Thomas had been thrilled (as thrilled as one in a constant state of hot-blooded annoyance and general dissatisfaction could be). A change of scenery, a new world in which to lose himself. A different backdrop of the same absurd play in which he had found himself. The train ride had been long and dusty; seated beside Ms O’Brien, he had attempted to quell his rising nausea with endless cigarettes and a glassy-eyed gaze fixed on the land that whipped past the window, green and blue and sickening. As his queasiness had intensified with the passage of time, so, too, had his irritation; he fixated on the notion of the family’s comfort in first class, imagined their laughter – _oh, those dreadful servants!_ When they had finally arrived in London, Thomas had spared scarcely a thought to his surroundings, instead stomping off the train to collect the baggage and snap at anyone in his path.

“Thomas,” Mrs Hughes had eventually sighed, as exhausted by his foul mood as the rest of the staff. “Stop moping for just a moment and look at where you are.”

And so he had. And for the first time that day, he had looked out the carriage window and realised, oh. He was in London. A great expanse of grey buildings and grey skies (even in June) and it wasn’t all that far removed from Manchester but it was _London_.

“No matter how many times I come here,” Mrs Hughes had continued, watching Thomas with a small, knowing smile. “A silly little part of me always half expects to see the King himself come waltzing around the corner.”

Mr Carson had sniffed. The warm air had felt congested with the perpetual grime of the city outside. “Silly indeed, Mrs Hughes, if it thinks the _King_ would w _altz a_ nywhere.”

Thomas had been almost fond of them in that moment. The feeling hadn’t lasted. And now, as he stood at attention in the obnoxiously large dining room (which was, Thomas noted, _far_ too many shades of red to be attractive in any way, shape or form) _as_ the family ate their obnoxiously large breakfast, he felt as though he had scarcely seen upwards of a few passing glimpses of London – and none had been particularly extraordinary. There was so _much_ happening in London – strikes, coronations, lovers waiting to make his acquaintance – and he felt as though he were destined to miss all of it. He ground his teeth and hoped Lord Grantham noticed.

He didn’t. Instead, the door creaked and Lady Mary swanned into the room, the scent of rose water trailing after her. “Sorry I’m late,” she greeted, and Thomas (otherwise known as the nameless wraith who materialised with the sole purpose of pulling out your chair, thank you very much, Lady Mary) suppressed the urge to quirk his eyebrows. Oh, no, milady – we’ve been up since before the sun but Heaven forbid you should find it within yourself to drag yourself out of bed before midday. “What have I missed?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Lord Grantham replied over his newspaper, an untouched cup of tea steadily cooling by his elbow.

Lady Grantham offered her daughter a warm smile as Thomas poured a cup of coffee for the new arrival. _You’re welcome, milady._ “You’ve every reason to enjoy a sleep-in, Mary – I thought it would be dawn tomorrow before the young Duke let us go home. He was so captivated by you.”

Thomas watched Lady Edith’s face fall even further; she began picking distractedly at the sugared grapefruit on the plate before her. He heard the self-satisfaction in Lady Mary’s voice and imagined her rolling her eyes. He eyed the back of her head resentfully. Of all the Crawley sisters, Mary was by far his least favourite – why Carson doted on her so he would never understand. “Stop it, Mama, you’re embarrassing me.” But her smile was coy.  

“Oh, so that’s possible, is it?” Edith pondered aloud, dejected and entirely unhappy. Thomas knew just as well as the other staff that Lady Edith had come to London hoping to have her life changed, and that she had been sorely disappointed – never out of the shadow cast by her elder sister, it seemed. _Poor lamb,_ Mrs Hughes had called her.

“Don’t start.” Mary seemed entirely too pleased with herself to concern herself with putting any real malice into her voice. She scooped roasted apples and cream onto her plate and Thomas’ mouth watered; outside, somewhere, a horse whinnied and a man shouted. Inside, there was nothing for a long moment but the solid heartbeat of a grandfather clock in the other room. Lady Grantham seemed content to sit and wait for her daughter to speak; Lord Grantham seemed content to read the newspaper and pay his family no mind. “But he was rather nice, wasn’t he?”

“Every lady within a ten mile radius certainly seemed to think so,” Lord Grantham answered without looking up.

“Papa.”

“Robert, please.” Lady Grantham’s exasperation vanished as suddenly as it had appeared; her smile was once more fixed to her lips as her attention returned to her daughter. “Your father and I have known the Duke’s family for some time, darling – his late father was on good terms with Granny.”

Lord Grantham turned a page. “Travelling in the same social circles hardly constitutes knowing someone. I always thought Crowborough an insufferable fellow – and so did you, if I recall.”

“Robert.”

“Papa.”

“Fine, fine.”

Mary sipped at her coffee. “Insufferable or not, he’s dead. And his son hardly seems to take after his father.”

Lord Grantham grunted noncommittedly. “We’ll see.”

“Yes, Robert, we will. And in any case, he’ll be here tonight for a more thorough interrogation.”

Thomas resisted the urge to snort as Lord Grantham finally set down his paper, face thunderous; this was a tedious journey to a predictable destination – a few minutes of argument and then Lord Grantham would surrender unto his womenfolk. “What?”

“I’ve invited him to dine with us tonight. With Freddie and Lord and Lady Cottingham here anyway, he’ll hardly be much of an imposition. Unless you object.”

“You know I do.”

“Would you like me to tell him not to come?”

Lord Grantham glowered at his wife; she gazed back unflinchingly. Finally, with a great sigh, he took up his newspaper once more and that was the end of that conversation. It frustrated Thomas, sometimes – to know so much about a family, to possess the facts that could ensure their fall from grace (and then some), to have that _power_ within his reach and know that he could never truly wield it, know that their ruin would also be his. Bloody typical, it was. Thomas willed them to be done with this seemingly endless breakfast, his entire body aching for a smoke and a little spot of easy repartee with Miss O’Brien out in the yard. He had been under the employment of the Crawleys since January; before then as second footman in a smaller manor house out in Lancashire; and before that as a hall boy. He had been told in each house that it was an honour to serve such noble families, that he ought to be proud of the fundamental role he had to play in their lives. And, for a while, he had been. It had catered to his blossoming arrogance, allowed him to feel important and needed and wanted. Then he had realised – no. He was no more than a nameless servant, an invisible being that cleared tables and pulled out chairs so that the families may live a life of ease and comfort. That was when the bitterness had begun to creep into his bones; it had not dissipated since.

But Miss O’Brien had been different to the rest of them. She had sensed his air of discontentment. And rather than reproach him for it, she had encouraged it. Miss O’Brien, he had deduced after a little while, had an almost motherly fondness for lads with broken souls – for the damaged, the angry, the lost. A self-proclaimed outcast herself, she swept them under her wing, nurtured them back to life; she strengthened their desire to embrace their true selves and gave them the means and confidence with which to do so. And, in return, her little foundlings fostered a devotion to her. Thomas supposed it owed more to the fact she no longer had her horde of brothers to rear than anything; or perhaps it was her own insurance policy, a form of power, to ensure the boys she had built up from dust would never turn on her. Either way, he was thankful to her – for her. The others thought them to be little more than partners in crime, united by their shared penchant for mischief and mayhem. But it was more than that. They were each other’s best part of an otherwise rather dismal situation, providing each other with protection, information, and a certain comradery that allowed them both to face each day with some semblance of strength.

Finally, _finally_ , movement from the direction of Lord Grantham stirred Thomas from his meditations; the footman moved – ever graceful – to pull back his chair. “Well, I’m off to steel myself for His Grace’s arrival.”

“Which isn’t for another 8 hours, darling.”

“All the better.”

Their Ladyships trickled out soon after and Thomas was left to heave an (internal, naturally) sigh of relief. Mr Carson gestured to the mess of cutlery and plates on the tabletop – _get this cleaned up_ – and Thomas obeyed. It was not ordinary for a footman to attend the family’s breakfast but, with Mr Watson’s retirement imminent and Thomas – relatively new to the household though he was – as the next most experienced male underling, Mr Carson had thought it best to begin his butler training a little ahead of schedule. Nor was it at all commonplace for a married woman such as Cora to take breakfast in the dining room – a tradition she had, Thomas supposed, dashed in the hopes of gauging her eldest daughter’s feelings (feelings?) a little further. Times, oh, they were changing.

»»»

 

“Lady Mary, a Duchess? Well, God help us all – we’ll never hear the end of it.” Miss O’Brien stared off into the distance, eyebrows a little raised, as she inhaled a lungful of smoke and ash.

Thomas smiled beside her, tapping at his own cigarette. The sky had changed dramatically since their arrival – gone were the grey clouds, out was the sun. The air was still and sweltering; the sky was unrelenting in its blueness. Thomas wiped at the beats of sweat forming on his forehead with the back of his hand and brought the cigarette to his lips; the gesture dislodged a strand of hair from its pomade prison and he made a mental note to clean himself up before heading back upstairs. Even the birds seemed too hot to sing. But Miss O’Brien never seemed much bothered by anything, let alone the weather. So he made no mention of it. “He’s coming to dinner tonight. His Lordship didn’t seem too impressed.”

“No, I should think not. No father rightly wants a daughter that outranks him.”

“Would she stay at Downton?”

“I don’t see why – can you imagine some upmarket young Duke coming to live out in the Yorkshire countryside like a hermit? ‘Cause I certainly can’t.”

Thomas pondered the question a moment before plucking the cigarette from his mouth and dropping it to the soot-stained bricks below. “’Spose not.”

“But that’s what you’re going to find out tonight. If Lady Mary is to leave Downton, this household might very well be divided in half. And Dukes need valets.”

Gnawing absently at his lower lip, Thomas nodded. “What about you?”

Miss O’Brien glanced over to him, studied his profile for a few heartbeats. The easy, drifting scent of jasmine and wisteria from a neighbouring garden was very nearly smothered by the stench of the London streets; men with heavy accents yelled, women laughed, young gamins swiped and pickpocketed, and there they were, tucked away behind the walls of Grantham House’s miniscule yard. Scheming, the others would have said. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll likely be stuck with Her Ladyship till death do us part – not that she’d notice if I were to pop off, I can tell you that much.”

He couldn’t quite picture a life in service without Miss O’Brien at his side – he had long since cast aside most of her maternal fussing, preferring to strike out on his own wherever he could, but he still relied on her company, her guidance. He rarely had to ask for it – it was simply offered to him; he faltered and she was there in an instant, presenting him with solutions, reason, a listening ear. But he would cope. He always had. Before he could speak, she pushed off from the wall and trampled her cigarette underfoot. “Come on, we’d best head back. I don’t like to think what would become of those housemaids if I weren’t there to keep them in check.”

Yes, he’d survive. And valet to a Duke did sound rather nice.

»»»

 

The setting of the sun provided little relief from the heat – it continued to suffocate, to lay low over the city and fill chests and throats with a dull, unpleasant heat. The scorched roads stank of tar and horseshit and Thomas felt as though the towering buildings all round him were the monsters of old fairy tales, reduced to mere silhouettes against the enflamed sky as they were. But the night, save the distant music drifting from parties down every street, was quiet. No crickets, no frogs. No gentle breeze rustling the evergreens. Just quiet.

But he was not one to find peace easily and so he thought and worried and mused, and grew irritated by his thinking and worrying and musing, until the first guests arrived. He stepped forward to greet them (which, of course, meant open their doors), the light of the nearby oil lamp turning his face to no more than a dancing shadow. Lord Cottingham was balding, middle-aged, thin; Lady Cottingham was much the same. Both wore unwavering, syrupy smiles. She was a baroness; he had adopted the title upon marrying her; and so on and so forth. Thomas paid them little mind; they were not the nobles he was interested in tonight.

Lady Grantham met them as they stepped onto the sidewalk, ushered them inside, and Thomas was left to wait alone once more, dizzy in the thick air of the summer night. He entertained himself by imagining life as a valet – days more or less free once the Duke had been dressed; leave to boss around whomsoever he might desire; no more of this waiting out on streets to open doors; oh, the possibilities were endless. Well. As endless as they could be in service. A bottle smashed somewhere down the street, followed by the laughter of drunken men. Thomas shifted his weight. He longed to nose about.

Cousin Freddie (Thomas vaguely went about bringing some indistinct recollections to mind – Frederick; second son of the Dowager’s cousin, Banning; studying to be a lawyer at Lincoln’s Inn; unmarried but engaged to some pretty little London thing; in all honesty, he couldn’t quite find it in himself to care) arrived soon after, a rather awkward mess of red hair and freckles and gangly limbs. Good-looking enough, Thomas supposed, and young. But once he was up the steps and out of sight, Thomas thought no more of him. He had no business with a lawyer.

Finally, there was the sputtering of an engine around the corner; Thomas stood to attention, tugging at his jacket and wiping the palms of his hands on his trousers. He was momentarily blinded by the headlamps of the Wolseley motor, blinking rapidly and refusing to shield his eyes against the yellow glare. Cursing under his breath as his vision returned, eyes still narrowed and a little watery, he opened the door. Bloody car. Bloody stupid lights. _Valets don’t have to put up with this._

The Duke of Crowborough was not what he had been expecting. There was an ease to his movements when he stepped out of the car – a simple elegance so unlike the stuffiness of other aristocrats Thomas had encountered; men who were really quite bumbling when they believed themselves to be the epitome of sophistication. He had always felt a little embarrassed by them, a little vexed by the fact his own grace was fated to go unnoticed by the society he served. He was quite certain he could do a far grander job of it than many of the upper class lot did.

For a long minute, the Duke merely stood there on the sidewalk, eyes closed, breathing in the stifling night air – Thomas uncertainly holding the car door open all the while. He had seen Dukes before, been close enough to smell their rotten breath. But never like this. The moment was almost intimate; the motor continued to rumble, filling the otherwise silent night; the street lamp spilled over them, bathing them in light whilst the rest of the street remained a dull monochrome. The Duke had an odd air about him – one that almost seemed to exude warmth and tenderness (warm skin, cold heart), to radiate an effortless sort of charm that was almost childlike in its simplicity. Thomas found himself entirely captivated. Then, exhaling a silent breath, the Duke opened his eyes (as soft and rounded as the rest of his features) and glanced over to Thomas; they eyed each other for a moment, the Duke’s gaze drifting over every inch of him, before flashing an ephemeral grin and trotting up the stairs. Thomas stared after him. It would come to haunt him, that particular unlucky disposition that found him at the mercy of any man with a pretty face.  

Thomas stayed there, gripping the car door, until the chauffeur barked a few unkind words and jarred him from his revere. “Hold your bloody horses,” he muttered, frowning to himself as he slammed the door shut a little harder than necessary. The car continued on down the road, leaving Thomas alone and in near-darkness once more. He stood for a moment, entrenched in the silence and obscurity offered by night; he blinked a few times, feeling his breathing slow and deepen as the exhaust fumes left in the motor’s wake dissipated into the nocturnal air, and raised his eyes to the sky. The haze of London smog glowered back at him. Skin prickling despite the summer heat, Thomas turned on his heel and trailed back up the steps. Had the Duke’s smile meant anything? Surely it had. It was by no means customary for a noble – certainly not a _Duke_ – to acknowledge, let alone _smile at_ , a servant. A servant – that vague and incomprehensible species that prided themselves on invisibility and aloofness. No, it had meant something. But perhaps the Duke was merely a kind man. And he was there to court Lady Mary – why on Earth would he bother with a footman when he had an Earl’s daughter within reach? But what if he w _ere_ to bother? A Duke for a lover. Well. Thomas scarcely considered the notion that, were he to enter into both the service and the bed of a Duke, he would be every bit the kept man, dependent on his lover and master – no, he only thought of the seemingly infinite possibilities, of the power and influence he would wield.

He paused by the front door, thoughts wandering down paths not often travelled by more demure minds. What would it be like to fuck a toff? To hear a proud aristocrat cry out his name; to be able to look across the room and know that, even as the Duke flirted and toyed with ladies, he was Thomas’? It soured the imaginings, a little, to know he would be condemned to a life in the shadows – but that was not so strange a notion, really; no different to the life he already lived. And a lot could be done from the shadows. Kingmakers lurked there.

“Thomas?” He snapped his head up. Mr Carson had halted at the closed door of the drawing room and was now setting him with a frown laden with distrust. “What are you doing skulking about out there?”

“Nothing, Mr Carson.” Thomas forced a look of utter indifference onto his face, meeting the butler’s accusatory gaze. They had once gotten along quite smoothly; then, as though playing the part of a father grown weary with his son’s ever-mounting rebelliousness, Carson had turned rather abruptly on the young footman. And to conceal the fact that he was more than a little wounded by the sudden transformation of their relationship, Thomas had resolved to fulfil Mr Carson’s low moral expectations of him ( _you think me a monster? Fine. A monster I’ll be_ ) – and to simultaneously be the best bloody footman Carson had never dared hope for. “I was just seeing the driver off.”

The butler hummed in disbelief (and, Thomas could have sworn, drew in a deep breath as though searching for any hint of cigarette smoke) but said nothing more on the subject. “They are about to head into dine – I hope this won’t interfere with anything you have planned, but a little footman service at dinner would not go amiss.”

“Yes, Mr Carson.”

“And I’m sure we’d all be very grateful if you could find it within yourself to open the windows in the dining room – but only if you’ve nothing better to do, of course.”

“Yes, Mr Carson.”

With a last lingering frown, Carson turned and disappeared into the drawing room. Ears burning, Thomas stalked into the dining room and threw open the windows. _Yes, Mr Carson. Of course, Mr Carson. Would you like me to wipe your arse while I’m at it, Mr Carson?_ He doubted the family would want the windows open for very long – there were all sorts of gnats and mosquitoes out on a balmy night like this. The room would be crawling with them before the first bloody course. But then he couldn’t very well say anything about it, could he? No. That would be _insubordination._ Insolence because he was the only one with some common bloody sense. Well, it wouldn’t be his problem if His Lordship wound up with malaria. Only it would be. Of course it would be. ‘Who opened these windows?’ ‘Oh, well, it was that incompetent footman, Thomas! I tried to tell him, Your Lordship, but you know how Thomas can be.’

Grinding his teeth, Thomas latched open the last of the windows and half-turned in the direction of the door; a knife glaringly out of line caught his eye and he hissed to himself as he stepped around the lavish table to hastily remedy the symptom of his co-workers’ incompetence. The lingering pollen that drifted from the fine display of excess that was the table’s centrepiece tickled his nose; tendrils of ivy interspersed with any number of summer flowers very nearly dominated the table top, crowding each place setting. The heady odour of the flora contrasted starkly with the pong of the London streets that wafted in through the open windows. But that was not Thomas’ problem.

A little giddy with the thought, he made his way down to the kitchen, markedly more aware than usual of the plainness of downstairs after the splendour of the dining room, of the bare walls and dull adornments (a poor attempt at livening the place up) that greeted him the moment he stepped across the threshold that separated the upper and lower classes. It was to remind them of their place, he supposed – this is our world, and this is yours. Don’t forget. The thought brought the Duke to mind once more; perhaps those two worlds need not be forced apart for much longer. Perhaps he may be granted a taste.

No. He scoffed at himself as he descended the servant’s stairs, palm running smoothly along the handrail. _Concentrate._ The aroma of the kitchen greeted him at the base of the steps but he spared no moment to savour it. “This ready to go up?” He asked the back of Mrs Patmore’s head, claiming the first dish his eyes fell upon. The cook cast him a fleeting look, nodded, and waved a dismissive hand at him before turning to screech at someone. Christ, it was hot. The kitchen staff rushed to and fro and he only narrowly escaped having custard splattered over his waistcoat. “ _Watch_ it,” he snarled at the girl.

“You watch it,” she snapped back, scarcely glancing at him before she was once again scurrying along. Cheeky.

Thomas pursed his lips disdainfully as the other footman hurried into the room, all but hopping as he struggled to pull on his jacket. “Button popped off,” Jonas explained to no one in particular, narrowing his eyes and pulling a face as he picked at the repair. “Had to fix it meself. Good thing I know how to—”

“Grab the veal soufflé and the sauce for the fish and hurry up. They’ll be in any minute.” With that, Thomas was out of the kitchen and back up the stairs, adopting his footman face the moment his foot met the first step. Jonas had once been third footman, before Thomas had started at Downton; then, when the number of footmen was cut back to only two, Thomas had, almost immediately upon joining the household, adopted the rank of first footman, despite the fact Jonas had held two year’s seniority. Remarkably, Jonas hadn’t seemed to hold a grudge – and, perhaps yet more remarkable, Thomas felt no great degree of dislike towards him. He was a profoundly friendly Yorkshire lad, apparently able to feel kindly towards anyone, no matter the amount of discourtesy they faced him with. It was a talent in and of itself – and one that Thomas didn’t particularly abhor. It could grate on his nerves, yes, but Jonas’ chatter had kept a budding temper at bay more than once.

The underside of the dish was beginning to scold his hands as he ascended the last of the stairs and shouldered open the door that divided the two worlds. He paused a moment to wipe sweat from his brow, holding the door open for Jonas with one elbow; the second footman offered a grateful smile. Thomas didn’t return it, simply flicked his eyes towards the dining room and raised his chin. His thoughts began to churn once more – the Duke, the possibility of some cloaked significance behind his smile, the far more likely possibility that Thomas was simply reading too much into meaningless little gestures and misinterpreting the situation entirely; but what _if_ —

“What’re you waiting for?”

Thomas scowled at Jonas’ earnest expression, realising he must have hesitated for a moment too long. “I’m not waitin’ for anything,” he muttered, sniffing indignantly. “Come on, you barmpot.”

_Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more._

»»»

 

A soft, steady breeze seeped in through the open windows, drifting about the room and lightly unsettling the ivy that dangled down to meet the Oriental carpet. Thomas stood before one of the windows, the draught fanning over the back of his neck and ruffling the strands of dark hair not made lifeless by pomade. As he had predicted, an insect buzzed obnoxiously about his ears, as though aware he could not swat it away. Despite the fresh air, the room was stifling and Thomas could feel sweat gathering once more at his temples. It itched. But his position by the window afforded him a clear view of the Duke and that alone kept any annoyance at bay.

Crowborough was as beguiling at the table as he had been on the street and Thomas watched his every move – with subtlety, he hoped. The Duke’s face was curiously expressive; his brows would rise and furrow as he spoke and listened; his eyes were wide and gentle but would crease when he smiled, which he did often; his lips were very nearly incapable of touching, always a fraction parted – and Thomas, well, he longed to know how they felt against his skin. And despite the warmth and ease with which he addressed the Crawleys and their guests (and with which he spoiled Mary), there was a little bite to much of what he said – a little venom; acerbity and derision masked by boyish smiles and blameless eyes. Thomas thought more than once that he was the only one privy to the true meaning behind much of what the Duke said – and more than once he thought that, perhaps, the Duke said it solely for his amusement. Once in a while, Crowborough would cast his eye upon Thomas by the window and his gaze would linger, boring into him. And then, as though entertained by the footman pretending not to have noticed, he would grin and return his attention to the table.

“Really,” the Duke was saying, voice low and easy and oh, bloody _Hell,_ how divine it would sound up close. “The dinner was delicious, Lady Grantham. I _might_ just be so inclined to steal away your cook.”

“Oh, I’m not sure you could manage it,” Mary smiled. “Mrs Patmore has almost become a fixture at Downton.”

Lord Grantham grunted, nodding. “She’s one step away from fusing with the kitchen stove, I’m told.”

“And yet, here she is – in London,” Edith griped. Mary set her with a withering look; Lady Grantham’s smile grew wider, as though to compensate for her middle daughter’s lack of hospitality.

But the Duke only smiled and Thomas loathed the bloody tease for a moment – how dare he have such a fucking lovely mouth? And, more importantly, what would it take to have it pressed against his own lips, his throat; how long would he have to wait until he was able to decide for himself just how much of the Duke’s civility was for show? Thomas clenched his fists. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask. Lady Mary.” The Duke turned his smile on the girl, who at present had her wine glass raised to her lips. She lowered it. “I hope you won’t think me terribly presumptuous but I was rather hoping you – and, of course, your family –“ (he cast another easy smile around the table) “—would accompany me to Syon House tomorrow. I happen to be rather good friends with Henry Percy and his daughter and son-in-law are visiting for the Season – allow me to introduce you and I promise they’ll be eternally grateful. It isn’t every day one is in the presence of such sheer loveliness. His words.” Another smile. This one he turned on Frederick, who had been watching silently from across the table. The smile suddenly looked quite patronising from Thomas’ vantage point. “You are welcome of course – unless the life of a lawyer is especially time-consuming.” He was clearly not welcome.

Frederick mumbled something Thomas didn’t catch, quite visibly shrinking before the Duke; the latter continued to fix him with that same condescending smile for a moment before looking expectantly at Lord Grantham, eyebrows raised.

“I have not seen Northumberland for…” Grantham nodded to himself for a brief moment. “Well, for quite some time. And I can’t say I’d be against catching up. I take it he was a friend of your father’s?”

“God rest his soul,” Lady Grantham added, leaning forward.

“Thank you. He was – and-and quite like an uncle to me growing up.” It seemed at times as though the Duke suffered from a stammer; whether it was genuine or merely a guise with which to promote his façade of innocence, Thomas wasn’t entirely certain. Either way, it was extraordinarily endearing. 

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he glanced over; Carson was nodding towards the door. Bowing his head in acknowledgement, Thomas moved to bring in the dessert, instinctively falling in-step with Jonas and entirely conscious of the Duke’s gaze on him even as he chatted about tea in the Great Conservatory. Thomas’ hips swayed a little in response to his salacious attentions. It was such a fun little game, this early courtship. And he was now utterly convinced he was not mistaken in thinking such a thing to be the case. The knowledge bolstered his self-confidence considerably and he almost grinned to himself. Almost. A Duke, in the palm of his hand. About bloody time.

Somewhat dreamily (hopeless bloody romantic that he was in those early days), Thomas took up the platter of lemon curd tart with summer berries whilst Jonas gathered up the port and old claret.

“I almost feel a bit sorry for that lawyer,” Jonas whispered, wincing sympathetically. “The Duke’s hardly said a nice thing to him all night.”

“It’s not our job to feel sorry for him,” Thomas replied coolly, pausing a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow for what felt like the thousandth time that day. Then, not interested in prolonging a conversation with the other footman, he pursed his lips and headed back into the dining room. Behind him, he heard Jonas cracking his neck and letting out an exhausted sigh. Thomas had gotten used to it, after a while – being on his feet for hours at a time. But it still made his legs ache dimly.

The scent of flowers and wine greeted him as he stepped back into the dining room. “Ah.” The Duke was the first to notice the return of the footman; the others followed his gaze, eyes falling appreciatively upon the lemon tart and the alcohol in the other servant’s hands. The Duke scrutinised him, offering a grin upturned more on one side than the other as his coffee eyes met Thomas’; then, as though having reached a conclusion, he dimpled his chin and exhaled a short chuckle. “You’ve outdone yourself, truly.”

As Thomas set down the dessert for Lord Grantham to serve, the Duke’s eyes – still crinkled and narrowed by his amused smile – lingered on his face; Thomas felt his skin reddening. When he risked a hasty glance out of the corner of his eye, the Duke’s grin broadened. It was addictive, this shameless game of blandishment in full view of a party of aristocrats; it was as though the Duke hadn’t a care in a world, as though he may very well bend him over the table and bugger him right there and then. For the briefest of moments, Thomas envisioned a life in which he could accompany the Duke to revelries in palaces and manor houses, in which he was welcomed as a friend and companion of a noble – and no one could turn up their nose at him, at his accent, without invoking the wrath of his affluent lover… Ensuring his expression was still devoid of any emotion, he withdraw from the table and returned to his post before the window. He tried to ignore Mr Carson’s frown.       

“I’ll be hard pressed to stand after this feast,” Lord Cottingham quipped, rubbing his hands together comically as Lord Grantham sunk the knife into the tart.

“Delicious,” Frederick agreed quietly, smiling rather shyly at Lady Grantham, who beamed back.

And so the night dragged on, hot and parched – and Thomas, feeling rather pleased with himself, began to pity Lady Mary and her wasted efforts just a little.


	2. all the good things that a good god gives

Once the ladies had retired to the drawing room for coffee and Thomas had brought cigars for the gentlemen to enjoy at the dining table, he and Jonas had been dismissed by Mr Carson until they were required once more; he had nipped down to the servant’s hall for a quick cuppa and a smoke. Miss O’Brien had joined him at the table with an expectant look. For a minute or two, he had played coy, simply reclining in his chair and blowing lazy smoke rings.

“Well?” she had asked finally, looking ready to smack him over the head. “Are you going to sit there till the cows come home? What happened?”

“Nothin’.”

“Don’t be obnoxious, Thomas.”

“I’m not – it’s not our business one way or the other whether he marries Lady Mary or not.”

Miss O’Brien had scoffed in disbelief. “My, well, you’ve certainly done a quick about-face, haven’t you? Who died and left you a pair of goody two shoes?”

And he had sniffed, leaning forward to stub out his cigarette. “As it so happens, Miss O’Brien, you don’t know as much about me as you might think.”

“Oh.” She had let out a mirthless laugh, dripping with scepticism. “I don’t, do I?”

“And,” Thomas had continued, watching her from under his lashes as he had stood to right his tie; the chair had scraped against the floor. “You might want to be a bit nicer to me in future – chances are, I’m about to become a good deal more influential.”

She had merely raised her eyebrows and Thomas had sworn he could hear the gears turning in her head. “Would you look at you? Anyone’d think you’d just been told you’re the long-lost heir to the throne.”

 _Something like that._ With a thin smile, he had turned on his heel and made his way back upstairs. Their conversations often played out that way – sounding more like arguments to the untrained ear. But it was no more than a childish form of verbal sparring; some days it was Miss O’Brien who drove Thomas mad by withholding information; other times, he was the tormenter. A sort of fond malevolence, really.

Now he stood rigidly before the front door beside Jonas, waiting as Lord and Lady Grantham said their farewells to the guests.

“Thank you for the wonderful evening,” the Duke smiled, taking Lady Grantham’s proffered hand in both of his and squeezing. “You almost made me forget the beastly heat.”

“It was our pleasure, Duke. We’re terribly excited for tomorrow, aren’t we, Robert?”

“You know, I rather am.”

Crowborough smiled. “Well, I shan’t monopolise your generosity any longer. Thank you, again. A pleasure, Lord and Lady Cottingham. And…” When he came to Frederick, he stopped a moment before drawing a tight, insincere smile and turning away. The lawyer chewed uneasily on his upper lip and dropped his gaze to the floor, face burning.

Thomas almost cringed when Lady Mary stepped forward a tad too hastily, almost reaching out a hand towards him before she dropped it to bunch in her skirt. “Until tomorrow.”

He only smiled in response; Thomas thought there was a hint of tedium in his eyes.

It wasn’t until Mr Carson discreetly cleared his throat that Thomas realised the Duke was waiting for his hat and coat and that – _Christ_ – the whole bloody room had noticed. Of course they had. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Clenching his jaw, Thomas gathered up the Duke’s coat and held it up behind him; an air of general amusement was radiating from the other man and Thomas wanted to slap him. Then the Duke’s hand brushed his abdomen and Thomas froze, staring straight ahead; as he slipped his arm into the other sleeve and drew away, Crowborough’s hand glided further down, knuckles just grazing over Thomas’ cock before he turned and was gone into the warmth of the dark street. Thomas stepped back as Jonas saw to the others, intolerably aware of the heat pooling in his own crotch and praying to be dismissed before anything came of it.

“What’s got into you?” Miss O’Brien asked later as Thomas all but sprinted up to his bedroom – poise and the cold façade, for once, be damned. He didn’t bother answering. 

»»»

 

The Duke dined with the Crawleys again the following night and it was much the same – Thomas could scarcely comprehend the sheer obliviousness of the family, certain a blind man would be better able to see the performance of lust and want that was being enacted before their eyes. Or perhaps he was merely over-sensitive to the little signs and sidelong glances.

He had ascertained – from the odd scrap and titbit of information thrown about here and there – that the family had had tea at Syon House, and that Lord Grantham had stayed with Northumberland in the library (quite impressive, apparently), whilst Lady Victoria and her husband, Sir Robert Tidmarsh, had shown the others around the Park. The Duke was once again all smiles and sincerity, the very picture of charm – he seemed for all the world as though he possessed a child’s inability to grow weary; it was only when the rest of the table was occupied that he would catch Thomas’ gaze and roll his eyes, grinning lopsidedly at the forced lack of emotion on Thomas’ part. Inwardly, he glowed at the attention being lavished upon him.

Then.

“My dear fellow, you must be absolutely drained.”

“Yes, I’m afraid we gave you quite the run-around today,” Lady Grantham agreed with a guilty smile. “Do stay the night.”

The Duke pressed his lips together in a show of consternation, drawing his brows together as though he hadn’t planned the whole thing from the start – a yawn now and then, a groggy little inflection into his voice. “Ah – I’d hate to be a bother.”

Mary interceded almost immediately, turning up her nose at the mere suggestion. “Nonsense – it’s settled. Why have so many rooms if they’re to be perpetually empty? Mr Watson can see to you, can’t he, Carson?”

“Of course, milady.”

Thomas’ eyes flicked over to the Duke, who regarded him for a passing moment with a look – lips parted, gaze entirely devilish – that spoke of promises and a thousand possibilities. He was, in all honesty, a little awed. Flattered, really, that the Duke (and this was the case, he was sure of it) was shamelessly taking advantage of the Granthams’ hospitality just so he may have a footman to himself. Brimming with smugness and anticipation, Thomas all but glided through the rest of dinner.

»»»

 

It was well into the night before Thomas and Jonas could begin clearing the dinner table; later still when they began the dreary task of polishing the silvers. Jonas twittered on all the while (about a baby that had just been born to his aunt back in Yorkshire; about the heat and this lass he had met in Ripon on his last half-day and about a great many other things that he apparently cared about very deeply), seemingly unbothered by Thomas’ pensive silence. He listened with half an ear, instinctively cataloguing anything that may be of use down the track. But mostly he waited, steadily working his way through the cutlery and shooting quick glances to the clock every so often when he was certain Jonas wasn’t watching. The small room was dark and stuffy, illuminated only by a handful of near-dead candles that provided more shadows than light; a miniscule window had been opened behind Jonas but it did little to relieve the stench of polish that choked the air. He wondered faintly if he would be able to scrub off most of the polish that was now ingrained in his skin; then wondered if the Duke perhaps had a particular fancy for lower class lads with dirty hands.

 _Oh, don’t be bloody nervous._ But he wasn’t. Surely. Strip away the title and a Duke was the same as any other man. Except he wasn’t. He was a Duke. Put him next to any farm boy from Derbyshire and any half-wit would be able to see in an instant that there were some fundamental differences. Maybe he liked different things. Thomas had grown accustomed to liaisons in alley ways and back rooms of dingy hotels, with men altogether removed from any trace of nobility. Would Thomas be expected not to kiss him – like some two pound whore? The thought made him nauseous. But it was possible – what reason would a Duke have to pursue any notion of romance with a servant after the fact? A quick fuck and then Thomas would surely be shown the door. He clenched his jaw, frowning into his distorted reflection in the silver and then down at his blackened hands. More likely he was deceiving himself. He’d never make valet like this.

“—I know what you’re probably thinking – she’ll have forgotten me by the time we’re back in Downton. But she were so lovely, y’see, and I can’t rightly see her just forgetting about me – ‘bout us – like that, like it were nothing.” Jonas fell silent for a moment, scrubbing out a particularly stubborn speck before leaning back with a defeated sigh. “Ah, I’m daft. Daft and lovesick. You ever been lovesick, Thomas? ‘Course you have – and I bet you made a great many girls lovesick, too. Where’d you come from? Manchester, wasn’t it? I’ve never been. Is it nice? I bet it’s nice.” 

It was nearing midnight when they left their gloomy little cavern, a cigarette dangling idly from Thomas’ lips as he returned the silver to the butler’s pantry. Jonas was asleep on his feet, eyelids drooping, and Thomas was finally forced to take the remaining silverware from him – “go to bed before you drop something.” He wasn’t bloody well going to start over now.

Jonas blinked sleepily at him. “You sure? I can stay – we haven’t that much more to do.”

“Go. Mr Carson’ll be by any minute to turn off the lights and we don’t want him seein’ you like this, do we?”

“Thanks, Thomas.” Jonas patted him on the back and offered a drowsy smile; Thomas _hmm_ ’d in response, glancing over his shoulder as though to ask a _re you still here?_ All but tripping over his feet, Jonas headed upstairs and left Thomas to replace the rest of the silver on his own. The more he thought on the Duke, the less convinced he became that going up to see him would be a good idea – what if he was just having a laugh? What if Thomas ended up regretting it? What if he lost his job – and any chance of a decent reference – because of it? What if he fell in love with the bloody man? He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning against the cabinet. His head ached.

“Oh. Thomas. I thought you’d gone up.” He straightened and whirled around, raising his chin defiantly. Mr Carson stood in the doorway, ready to switch off the lights.

“I’ll be up in a minute, Mr Carson. Just putting away the rest of the silver.”

Mr Carson nodded once. “See that you are.” With that (and Thomas wasn’t exactly sure whether that had been intended as a threat), he was gone, turning off lights as he went. Thomas listened as his footsteps receded up the backstairs before exhaling a silent breath. The butler’s pantry was now the single source of light for the whole of downstairs; all around him, heavy darkness. The smell of the kitchen drifted in – dough, burned pastry, herbs. And for a moment he simply stood, thinking that the entire world was empty and silent. Then, clearing his throat, he clicked shut the cabinet and strode over to Mr Carson’s desk with the determination of one having finally reached a decision after a long stretch of doubt. Well acquainted with the art of nicking things, he opened the second drawer and closed his fingers round the cool smoothness of a candle; the scent of dust and cedar wafted up to meet him and he held back a sneeze. He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray on the desk and withdrew a match from his pocket. The flame caught with a feeble hiss and then shadows were flickering and trembling on the walls. With a last, brief hesitation, he found a candle holder, switched off the light, cast his eyes once more round the pantry, and crept upstairs. _What am I doing, what am I doing._ He was ordinarily able to fool himself into a false sense of conviction – he resolved to do something and did it, end of story, _que sera, sera._ He would think through the possible outcomes and act accordingly. _Now_ … He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. It made him feel a little ill.

The stairwell was silent; the upstairs hallway, when he stepped through the concealed servant’s entrance, was dark and lifeless. He found himself holding his breath. Shafts of watery moonlight filtered in through the windows, bathing the house in a wan silver. Nothing moved. His pulse hammered in his ears and he suddenly felt unbearably hot. This was a mistake. As he was turning to leave, a sliver of warm light bleeding from beneath the door to the guest bedroom caught his eye. Ah. So he was still awake. Waiting for him? Thomas teetered, on the brink of both staying and going. But need – and no small amount of curiosity – made him reckless. Behind him was a vast series of bad decisions; what was one more?

Smoothing his hair (for appearance was everything), he crossed the short distance to the door and touched his fingers to the door handle, breathing shallow and heart in his throat. Then, before he quite comprehended what he was doing, he slipped into the bedroom and stood with his back pressed to the door, as though to assure himself he still had a means of escape. Gone was the proud, stoic footman; no ice could survive there. After a moment, still half-choked by adrenaline, he raised his eyes from the rug to see the Duke watching him from a wingback armchair by the fire – _fire?_ Christ, as if it weren’t sweltering enough. But Crowborough looked content, clad in a dressing gown, cheeks red and book in his lap; his hair was a tad messier than it had been at dinner and Thomas – he cursed himself – longed to run his fingers through it. Realising he was still clutching the candle, he set it aside on the dresser near the door.

“I was beginning to think I’d been too subtle,” the Duke remarked by way of greeting, grinning crookedly.

Thomas exhaled a rasping chuckle, lowering his eyes. “I couldn’t help wonderin’ what a Duke could see in a footman, Your Grace.”

The Duke laughed, gaze not straying from him for a moment; and Thomas, well, he felt quite like the world revolved around him when he was regarded so openly – with such attentiveness, such hunger. “I’d hate to think you were humble.”

“Not very, no.” He smiled slyly in spite of himself, eyes flickering up to watch the Duke from beneath his lashes.

Setting aside his book, Crowborough rose and made his way over to Thomas, head tilted a little; Thomas held his ground, heart thundering in anticipation. But the Duke merely stopped a few breaths from him and smiled, tongue running over his lower lip as he studied the footman. “I didn’t catch your name.” His voice was low; his eyebrows quirked slightly, earnestly.

“Thomas, Your Grace.” This, breathless.

“Thomas.” He shivered as the Duke breathed his name; Crowborough grinned, seeming endlessly amused by the footman. “You’re quite exquisite.”

When he opened his mouth to respond, the Duke brought his thumb up to rest against Thomas’ lips; Thomas fell silent, breathing laboured and uneven as the Duke traced them, touch soft – it felt almost as though a paint brush was outlining, sketching, his lips. His eyes fell shut as the Duke’s fingers flittered down to draw a steady line down his jaw, his throat; a few gentle touches and he was already in pieces. When he tilted his head back, the Duke moved a little closer to brush his lips against Thomas’ neck, the warmth of his breath almost indistinguishable from the heat of the room. “I want you, Thomas,” he murmured, voice no more than a soft exhalation against his skin. Thomas didn’t trust himself to speak; he merely bobbed his head, revelling in the feeling of the cool door at his back and the Duke everywhere else, filling the air with the scent of allspice and tobacco. The glow of the fire was steadily dimming.

As the Duke began work on unravelling Thomas’ tie, his teeth and tongue leaving bites and burst blood vessels that marked the footman as his all the while, Thomas couldn’t help tittering at the brilliantly absurd situation he’d found himself in – there he was, sweat-laden, flushed, and with his trousers feeling entirely too tight, being undressed by a Duke. He felt Crowborough’s brow’s kink upwards at the sound. The Duke drew back, lips parted; he offered the briefest of grins – questioning.

Thomas eyed him lethargically over the bridge of his nose, the back of his head still resting against the door. “A Duke for a valet.” His words were slurred with lust. With a thin smile, he added lowly, “Your Grace.”

“A cocky servant for a lover,” Crowborough countered, whisking the tie free from Thomas’ shirt collar and casting it aside; it fell to the floor, crumpled and forgotten. Thomas snorted, electrified by the ease with which the Duke matched his teasing – no more unappreciated irony or one-sided wit. In a moment of thrilling madness, he hooked his fingers around the neck of the Duke’s gown, drawing him in for a clumsy kiss. Crowborough let out a surprised hum and Thomas froze, cursing his own brazenness. Then the Duke was smiling against his lips, fingers gliding up to curl in Thomas’ hair. “If—“ Crowborough broke off with a sharp gasp as Thomas bucked his hips forward, his grip on the Duke’s gown tightening insistently. He took advantage of the parting of the Duke’s lips (bloody Hell, Thomas had never thought such softness possible), deepening the kiss. He tasted of whisky and cigars. When both their lungs were starved of breath, the Duke broke away, resting his forehead against Thomas’ (and discreetly rising a little onto his toes to do so). Their chests heaved together. “If we’re going to fuck, you really ought to call me Philip.” Thomas chuckled almost shyly, stuttering puffs of breath fanning over the Duke’s cheeks; Crowborough grinned, settling back onto his heels. The fire was almost entirely dead, a few stubborn embers clinging desperately to life in the heap of hot ash. Thomas’ discarded candle offered the only other source of light, pitiful and faint. Warm, stifling darkness.

“Your shirt,” Philip breathed, nipping placidly at the sensitive skin left exposed by the absence of Thomas’ tie. “Your damned jacket, everything. Off.” He punctuated the word with a sharper pinch, tongue darting out almost immediately to soothe the red flesh, apologetic.

“How am I goin’ to explain the mess my livery’ll be in to the downstairs lot?” Thomas teased, sucking in a harsh breath. Even so, he slipped off his jacket, feeling it land in a heap at his feet, and started on the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers trembling and hands rendered a tad immobile by the Duke’s body pressed flush against him; Crowborough didn’t appear interested in moving at all, instead edging his knee between Thomas’ legs and sniggering (victorious) at the feeling of the footman’s erection against his thigh.

“Blame me,” he replied quietly, hand slipping down to finger the waistband of Thomas’ trousers, palm pressing against warm skin that quivered in response. Thomas breathed a curse, fingers faltering on the buttons of his shirt. “I’m guilty of so much, what’s—“ His hand stumbled further down still. “What’s one more little sin?”

With a small, devilish grin and a huffed chuckle, he began to slowly massage Thomas’ cock through the fabric of his trousers, silencing the makings of a moan with a deep kiss. “Best get those trousers off quickly,” he all but purred into Thomas’ mouth, the attentions of his hand growing more adamant. Thomas nodded, wincing as he arched into Philip’s touch and feeling sure that his legs would crumple beneath him if the door weren’t there to support him. His shirt soon met the same fate as his jacket and waistcoat and the Duke withdrew a little to admire his pale skin; apparently approving, he ducked his head to lavish kisses across Thomas’ collarbones, teeth grazing the flesh. “Such a shame,” he murmured, almost to himself. “To hide such beauty.”

Thomas didn’t respond, hands still working to rid himself of his trousers. In his frenzy of a state, he threw his head back against the door; at his pained hiss, Philip raised his head and stilled the ministrations of his hand. “Alright?” His voice was amused. Thomas nodded, reaching down to touch his fingertips to the Duke’s hand, silently urging him to continue. With a small laugh, the Duke obliged. “Perhaps we’d best relocate to the bed before we go any further.”

Again, Thomas nodded. With a small smile that contrasted oddly (charmingly, really) with a slighter yet frown, the Duke brought his hands to rest on Thomas’ bare hips. Thomas met his eyes, feeling a little dazed with muffled glee as he was led to the bed; he imagined – wading through the fogginess of his thoughts – the housemaids stripping the sheets in the morning, ignorant to the errant pleasures that had been shared atop them in the late hours of the night. When the backs of the Duke’s legs bumped against the mattress, he let himself fall back, shuffling back to lounge against the pillows (gold, crimson) and eye Thomas expectantly; his dressing gown had fallen open, exposing his chest, his beautiful cock, hard and begging to be claimed... Thomas took a moment to appreciate the sight. A Duke, all for him. _His_ Duke, for the night. Philip seemed to lap up the attention, lips drawing back into a coy smile. He shifted under Thomas’ gaze, fingers whispering down his torso until they met his own erection; he tilted his head, eyebrows raised. _Must I do this myself?_ His eyes seemed to ask.

With a devilish glint to his eyes, Thomas finally freed himself of his trousers and lowered himself onto the bed, palms settling into the lavish bedding as he crept over to the Duke on hands and knees. Philip grinned up at the footman, hands gliding down his shoulders, his ribs, to dig his fingernails into the milky, pliant flesh of Thomas’ waist. Fingers splayed either side of Philip’s chest, Thomas dipped down to catch his lips in a swift kiss before drawing back, mouth hanging open and hovering over the Duke’s, just a breath out of reach; when the Duke arched upwards, seeking Thomas’ lips once more, the footman remained a little out of reach. He smiled wickedly at Crowborough’s evident frustration.

“Horrid tease,” the Duke muttered, whisking his hands up to rest on Thomas’ cheeks and draw him down for a rather fierce kiss – capturing, claiming. Chuckling hoarsely against the Duke’s lips, Thomas dropped his hips to grind lightly against Crowborough’s; the latter choked out a moan and, God Almighty, Thomas felt as though he were the most powerful being in existence, able to elicit such wonderful sounds. Suddenly enveloped by an overwhelming fondness for the Duke, he slowed the kiss and broke away, revelling in the feeling of the other man’s panted breaths against his skin as Thomas stippled small, chaste kisses down his jawline; all the while he ground down, down, legs tingling with the friction – oh, there was nothing on Earth like it. “You—you will be the death of me, I can tell,” Crowborough hissed, lips grazing Thomas’ sweat-laden forehead.

“As good a death as any, Your Grace.”

And Crowborough was destined to be his downfall, really. In years to come – entire lifetimes later – Thomas would realise that. He would think, lying awake in the misty hours before dawn, that the hazy summertime romance had instilled within him false expectations of what love and intimacy could be – what Thomas had desired, he had gotten; with small touches and lingering looks shared between them behind turned backs. And he was destined to spend a great many years trying – and failing – to recreate that. He had learned from the Duke, been taught to believe that _that_ was how one conveyed interest, affection, and it was to be thrown back in his face. Thomas became a consequence of a dalliance that was every bit once in a lifetime; a result of a love fated not to be repeated – not for him. Philip had welcomed his intensity; others, he was to learn, would not. And that would only make him all the more desperate to please, all the more anxious to rescind habits picked up in that summer of 1911, when he had been as foolish as he had been young – in years to come, his mind was to be fraught with thoughts of ‘ _I did that wrong? I’ll fix it. I’ll try harder. I can be better.’_ Paranoia, desperation, despair; he was to be plagued by loneliness because of that Duke who had shown him how to love and that footman of days past who had been stupid enough to believe life could always be cheated. Oh, yes. The Duke of Crowborough would be his ruin.

But for now – with the Duke inside him; with their bodies tangled into one; with Thomas pressed to the sweet-scented sheets and the Duke gasping promises and curses into his hair – he was a happy distraction.

»»»

 

Thomas had very nearly forgotten the feeling of a bed shared with a lover – the chaste pleasures (another’s breathing in the darkness; another’s heartbeat) that he cherished just as much as the sex. Philip had dozed off not long after they had both reached their climax, lulled into a light slumber by gentle words (sleepy nonsense, really) shared between them and Thomas’ fingers drifting lazily through his hair.

“Don’t be gone in the morning,” he’d murmured, lolling his head to the side and fixing Thomas with a drowsy smile. Thomas had simply stared back with somnolent eyes, still quite unable to believe he was really there; he focused for a moment on the heaviness of his limbs, on the near-darkness and the heat of the body next to him, almost unbearable where their ankles had overlapped. The sheets were sticky with sweat and spilled seed and, Christ, it was real. He’d reached out to brush a strand of hair from Philip’s eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards as the Duke had inclined his head to press a small kiss to the underside of Thomas’ wrist. His hand had lingered a moment, thumb skimming over Philip’s cheekbone, before he’d let it slip down to rest on his chest, the dark, wiry hairs tickling Thomas’ skin.

“I have to.” The words were quiet, liable to simply slip into the hot air like smoke. “If I wanna keep my job.”

“There are other jobs, Thomas.” His eyes had slipped shut, lips a little agape as though he’d succumbed to sleep mid-thought. And Thomas had watched him, arm bent on the pillow and the side of his head nestled against his own elbow, listening to the Duke’s breathing grow slow and even. The candle he’d long since forgotten on the dresser had withered to a mere stump, flame writhing half-heartedly. He’d stayed there for what had felt like hours, resisting the beckon of sleep lest he should miss a single breath or little moan. Then, finally, he’d rolled onto his back and stumbled unsteadily to his feet. The hot air had pressed in on all sides, caressing him, tempting his foggy mind and heavy body back to bed. But he’d persevered, staggering over to the window and throwing open the thick cherry curtains with sluggish arms. And there he’d stood – in the pale moonlight, proud and defiant and triumphant and utterly miserable, bliss dampened and chilled by the knowledge this night – this… whatever it had been with the Duke – could never last; he’d stared, glassy-eyed, out over the London rooftops, his nudity a little f _uck you_ to the society who saw fit to condemn his love. And another little droplet of resentment, made all the stronger by its close association with the joyfulness he’d felt beside – beneath – the Duke, had settled into his bones.


End file.
